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There’s a beat of silence, then Simone bursts out laughing. “Girl, you’re a mess. A walking disaster.”
I groan and fall into one of the sofas. “Don’t remind me.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Simone says, taking a seat beside me. “You’re a hot mess. I wish I was as put-together and glamorous as you when my whole life is falling apart. But”—she whistles—“you’re not making it easy on yourself.”
I slouch down, throwing an arm over my face. But my lips twitch, and pretty soon, I find myself laughing.
Yeah, I’m a disaster. But even so, I’m happier than I’ve been in years. My kids took to their new school like ducks to water this morning. Kevin’s snide comments aren’t being hurled at me daily. Sure, I may be living with my mother, but I’m in a new town with more friends and support than I’ve had since I was in school myself.
Do I really want to ruin that by dating my daughter’s teacher? Do I really want to invite more drama and heartbreak into my life?
I like the guy, but what if there’s nothing there? What if he’s a rebound, and what we had was a shallow attraction?
I slump down on the sofa, pretty sure that what I should do is the exact opposite of what I want to do—and what I should do is say goodbye to my romance with Mac. Focus on myself. Focus on my kids.
Move on.
CHAPTER 25
Mac
Today was the longest day of my life. By the time the kids are all picked up, I sink into a chair in my classroom and let out a long sigh.
Katie’s a good kid. She was fearless, happy, and already has half a dozen best friends after just one day. I saw so much of her mother in her that it made it hard to focus on my work.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to date Trina. Maybe we could make it work…somehow. But if anyone found out and started treating Katie differently, I’d never forgive myself. Not to mention the fact that I could ruin my reputation for good. Letting out a long sigh, I lean back and stare at the ceiling tiles, trying to find some way out of this situation.
The logical thing to do would be to tell Trina it’s inappropriate for us to see each other, and to break up. But even thinking of doing that makes me feel sick. I haven’t met a woman like Trina…ever. Thinking about how she flinched when her ex-husband hurled those insults at her makes me want to drive to her place right now just to make sure she’s safe and happy.
I’ve never wanted to do that. I’ve never cared about a woman’s happiness, her safety, her mood the way I care about Trina’s.
And after what happened Saturday in my studio, and Sunday in my bed, I know I want to be the man who gets to lay down beside her every night and wake up beside her in the morning.
But am I really willing to give up my job for that? Am I willing to throw away all the years I’ve spent building my reputation at this school for a woman who just got out of a relationship? Do I actually want a relationship?
I’ve always told myself I was better off on my own. After Belinda, I vowed to keep even casual sex as far away from my work as possible.
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and see a message. Trina wants to talk.
With a sigh, I send her a response. Is it bad that I still want to take her out to dinner? I’m still desperate to see her again. Touch her again.
But Trina refuses dinner. Instead, she tells me she’ll meet me at my place once the kids are in bed. So for the next few hours, I find myself tidying my house, changing my clothes half a dozen times, throwing back a beer, and fidgeting constantly—all while trying to come up with some way to get around this situation. Trying to think of something that will let me be with Trina.
But it all comes back to what happened with Belinda. The four years of awkwardness that followed our hookup, and all the ways I failed to be honest with her about how I felt.
I respect Trina enough to not make that mistake again.
I respect myself not to throw away the years of hard work that gave me a good name at that school. I can’t date parents.
So when she texts me that she’s on her way, I find myself walking to the studio just to be somewhere that makes me calm—but then I take one look at the workbench and walk right out. I don’t feel calm when I think of what we did in there just a few nights ago. Not even a little bit. So, I head back into the main house and crack open another beer.
I live in a three-bedroom bungalow on an acre plot. It’s secluded enough that I can do pottery late in the evening with music playing without disturbing the neighbors, but close enough that my commute during the school year is just twenty-five or thirty minutes. I’ve lived here for twenty years. Most of the furniture is from local artisans—what little of it there is. Apart from the multitude of hand-thrown pots, plates, and mugs, I’m mostly a minimalist.
Still, I straighten the few cushions on my couch and let out a long sigh, feeling every second trickle by slower than the last.
The sound of a struggling engine tells me Katrina’s clunker of a car is near. My heart thumps and I run my hands through my hair once again, pacing my kitchen until I hear the doorbell.
And even though I’ve had hours to prepare myself, the sight of her standing on my threshold still nearly knocks me back. She’s changed into a knee-length black dress that clings to every perfect curve. Thin straps hold it up over her shoulders, with a colorful shawl hanging from her arms. A long silver pendant drops down her front, drawing my eyes to her chest. I close my eyes for a beat, trying to forget what it felt like to touch her perfect tear-shaped breasts, and I step aside to let her enter. She even smells amazing, and I fight the urge to throw all my convictions away just to tug her close and bury my face in her neck.
